


Burden of Proof

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kup had something to prove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daendereth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daendereth/gifts).



**Title:** Burden of Proof  
**Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 1**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

The Dinobots thought he exaggerated all the time. 

Objectively, Kup couldn’t fault their skepticism. They loved Kup’s stories and never skipped an opportunity to hear more, but the old sergeant edited his tales for their consumption. He knew his audience, okay? Most of his past adventures were tagged with content warnings in his memory files. He’d accomplished much in his long life, scandalized whole star systems and seduced their inhabitants, but the Dinobots just weren’t mature enough to handle explicit details on the hows and whys. Without those, his tales lost impact. When he cut out crucial details, the endings didn’t make as much sense.

Sure, he’d taken a battalion of raw recruits to Cligion-4 and survived. There had been a huge fight with the natives, as he said. Casualties left and right, exactly as he described. Nearly started a war between Cligion-4 and Cybertron, no lie. It was just that for the Dinobots, he glossed over the ending of that story into a vague, “I can be pretty diplomatic when I’ve gotta be.” It lacked the punchline, see?

He didn’t tell the Dinobots that diplomacy had entailed volunteering his battalion to be the sacrifices for the local fertility festival as a show of good faith. “We came in peace!” got hooting laughter from his normal audiences. The Dinobots just wouldn’t get it.

So objectively, he understood. He didn’t blame them for doubting his reputation when it was edited for content.

Subjectively, Kup took it rather personally when Grimlock scoffed in his face. 

“You Kup talk big,” the big lugnut said scornfully, “but me Grimlock not see you Kup do anything.”

Across the basketball court, Hot Rod froze mid-stride. The ball bounced away with Slag and Snarl in close pursuit, but Kup’s protégé stared in the opposite direction. Horror crept up his face. Oh, Grimlock didn’t just. Tell him he hadn’t.

Kup leaned back on the bleachers. Age-pale optics narrowed at the leader of the Dinobots. “Is that so?”

Grimlock’s head turned toward his squabbling subordinates. Two Dinobots, one basketball; one of the three had a far shorter life expectancy than the others. Grimlock’s tolerant expression said he wasn’t going to do anything to extend that short lifetime. Even Prowl’s tightfisted budgeting allowed for the purchase of one more basketball if it bought the Autobots an afternoon free of the Dinobots rampaging through the halls. “You Kup talk so much scrap, me Grimlock should invest in recycling plant.”

Hot Rod did a wonderful impression of a bug-eyed Sharkicon soundless opening and closing his mouth. Oh, Grimlock had totally gone there.

“Scrap, eh?”

“Scrap.” Grimlock nodded firmly. “You Kup put you Kup’s money where you Kup’s mouth is.”

It took a moment to interpret that saying as a challenge instead of literal directions. Sometimes the Dinobots didn’t bother translating idioms, and Kup wasn’t about to eat credits to prove anything. “You want to see me do something?” He stood up, creaking and groaning as only an old mech could. “Oh, I’ll do something.”

A loud _POP!_ announced the basketball’s demise. It deflated where it hung from Snarl’s mouth, but nobody was paying attention to it. Both he and Slag had their head turned in sudden alert. Hot Rod’s energy field bled dismay through the basketball court like an early warning system composed of horror and humor. He stared at his mentor as if he didn’t know what to do. His optics flicked between Kup and Grimlock. He should do something, but he didn’t know what. Run? Hide? Start a betting pool? 

Grimlock knew enough to take a step back, eyeing the old crank warily. Kup might talk up his adventures too much for the Dinobots’ to believe, but they’d witnessed him run the other Autobots around the training grounds. Even Ironhide became a trainee whenever Kup turned drill sergeant. Grimlock was king, the leader of the Dinobots, but he felt a complete rookie about to be taken to task by the time Kup straightened up.

No, wait, Kup was doing that to him on purpose, and Grimlock was calling him on it. 90% attitude and self-made reputation didn’t make up for 10% ability. Grimlock threw his shoulders back and glared down at the shorter mech. “Me Grimlock think you Kup won’t do anything. Maybe you Kup **can’t** do anything.”

“You Grimlock better rethink that.” Kup flashed a grin. “I’m going to do **everyone**.”

“You Kup -- “ Confusion tilted Grimlock’s head to the side. What? That made no sense. Kup should have said ‘everything.’ 

“Me Grimlock not understand,” he said after thinking about it. “What you Kup mean?”

“I mean that I’m going to do everyone.” 

It made no more sense upon repetition, but Grimlock was distracted from demanding a better explanation by the sight of the old-timer lifting his arms up into a casual stretch. Intakes skreeled. Cables popped, unkinking long and supple. Joints snap-cracked in and out of their sockets. Dull plating flared out from struts that didn’t seem as age-frail anymore. Kup arched his back, head tipping from side to side as he worked his neck. He gave a low groan that woke a ripple of bright anticipation from Hot Rod, and the speedster’s out-of-control energy field sparkled against Grimlock’s in an eager dance.

The Dinobot took a wary step back. Was Kup going to attack him? The old mech didn’t seem aggressive, but he did seem different. The stretching took away half his age. When he lowered his arms from over his head, he looked limber. Ready. Intimidating. 

Grimlock stubbornly stood his ground. 

Kup merely touched two fingers to his helm in sardonic salute before turning to saunter away. His hips had a weird pop to them. Grimlock’s head cocked the other way as he watched them roll. A consequence of stiff joints locked up from sitting down, he assumed, although Kup didn’t otherwise seem to have any aches anymore. He held his head high and all but strutted. It was strange. Grimlock had never seemed him walk that way.

Hot Rod took off across the court back toward the _Ark_ at a sprint. Snarl and Slag chased after. They didn’t know why he was so excited, but every Dinobot knew not to kill the messenger. Following the messenger usually led them to the fight.

They were disappointed to find nothing but some kind of consent form, this time. Hot Rod hurriedly set up shop in a corner of the rec room, tablet in one hand and stylus in the other. “Don’t mind me! I’ll be here all week. Nothing to see, move along, move along,” he laughed at the room in general, overflowing with feckless merriment. The curious stares became significant looks exchanged across the room. 

_’He’s gone off the road,’_ those looks said. 

_’Bonkers,’_ other looks agreed. 

Hot Rod’s optics practically sing-songed, _’I know something you don’t~’_

More speaking looks were exchanged. _’Should we be worried?’_ The tablet in the speedster’s hand was given a few looks of its own. 

The Dinobots gave each other one that could be translated, _’What is everyone looking at?’_

Into the criss-cross of traded looks stomped Grimlock, who’d caught up at last. He glared at the grinning, garish Autobot sitting at the corner table. “You Hot Rod secretary? You Hot Rod take names of them afts him Kup kick?” 

Hot Rod blinked and lost his grin. “You realize that it really doesn’t mean he…you know what, sure. He’ll kick aft, I’ll take names.” He ducked his head industriously over his tablet. “He’ll do something with their afts, anyway.” 

The mutter could be barely heard. Hound and Blaster choked on their energon. 

Grimlock asked him what that was supposed to mean, but Hot Rod just sniggered to himself and refused to explain. A second later, the Dinobots were pushed aside by the beginning of what became a line of Autobots. Blaster and Hound were first in line. What they were signing consent for, they wouldn’t say, and Hot Rod wouldn’t let the Dinobots see the form at all. His excuse was that they were ineligible due to Grimlock being the one to demand proof of Kup’s epic awesomeness. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly what he said, but that’s how the Dinobots interpreted the evil gleam in his optics. The important part was that they weren’t allowed to sign up. They sulked out of the room when Ratchet agreed with Hot Rod -- while signing the form himself. Hmmph.

Fine. Let Kup try and prove Grimlock wrong. 

The rest of the week, the Dinobots were sorely confused by the other Autobots claiming to have gotten some action from Kup. Grimlock had staked out the training grounds. Snarl and Slag had hung out in the shooting range. They hadn’t seen _anything_. 

Yet Hot Rod showed them the list of names taken, and the Dinobot leader grudgingly conceded. Kup hadn’t been exaggerating. Everyone Grimlock asked about it afterward skimmed over the details of how Kup had defeated them, but they still confessed to losing. Some of them seemed happy about it, even.

“Ambush,” Optimus Prime said, optics crinkling in a smile. “I didn’t see him coming.”

“Used me ‘gainst Prime.” Ironhide’s smile was lopsided but sincere. “Took me after Prime tapped out.”

Prowl didn’t look up from his work. “He made efficient use of the time allocated to him.”

“I didn’t stand a chance.” Bumblebee put his hands up in protest of Grimlock’s dismissive snort. “Spike was right there! What was I supposed to do, tackle Kup and hope we didn’t land on him?” 

Grimlock thought it unnecessary to ask what happened to Wheeljack. The explosion had been heard from the other side of the mountain, and gossip said Wheeljack’s best shot hadn’t been enough to make Kup falter. Grimlock was surprised his creator had emerged unscathed, considering the size of the crater.

Then again, Kup had apparently managed to take out two of the Autobot frontliners without more than scuffs and minor dents. That impressed him. Grimlock had passed Jazz and Ratchet hauling the pair of Lamborghinis through the halls and originally thought nothing more of it than simple exhaustion. He still didn’t know how Kup had worn them out that badly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sunstreaker growled.

“I want a rematch!” Sideswipe said at the same time.

“You missed the demonstration round,” Ratchet informed them from the next table, and he smiled broadly at Grimlock’s inquisitive look. “Yes, I took my turn. Somebody’s got to teach you all how to give as good as you take.” Sideswipe and Sunstreaker looked envious. Ratchet just looked smug.

Grimlock’s interest increased. “Teach how?” 

Perceptor used his blandest voice in response. “It is in the library as supplementary instructional material now, if you feel a need for an academic analysis of technique. I recorded their bout and did my best to maintain an impartial narrative throughout my own turn in the following exhibition round. Kup’s training methodology is riveting, first or secondhand.”

Grimlock immediately lost interest. The Dinobots’ collective lack of enthusiasm for boring instructional videos was notorious.

Strangely, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe burned rubber racing out of the room. Huh. He hadn’t thought they were into listening to dry narration of educational material, either.

Mirage wasn’t as hard to track down as he probably wished he was. Grimlock sniffed him out, invisibility or not.

“We did not **fight** ,” he insisted when Grimlock asked what Kup had done to win. 

How typical of the noblemech. He wouldn’t admit to something as uncouth as a wrestling match, or a shoot-out, or whatever it’d been that Kup used to defeat him. Because he had been defeated. Grimlock could smell how embarrassment heated the spy’s plating. 

“You Mirage’s name on him Hot Rod’s list,” Grimlock said, and the hot metal smell betrayed what Mirage’s tightly-leashed EM field never would.

The spy drew himself up, expression chilling to Artic levels. “Obviously I signed the form beforehand. It served to indicate my willingness in the event we crossed paths.” His optics turned aside in a brief moment of what someone else might have labeled shy remembrance. Grimlock labeled it embarrassment. “One doesn’t come across that sort of opportunity anymore. The experience was priceless.”

Ah, so it was a terminology conflict. Mirage was balking at calling it a fight. Training, then. Admitting it was a fight would tear a strip off his pride. Grimlock didn’t like losing, but he called a fight a fight. Training meant nobody won or lost, but he found Mirage’s word games ridiculous. He could smell the truth wafting off the noblemech in gusts of warm air.

Unlike Jazz, who showed no sign of anything except having a good time. He freely confessed to ending up under Kup, not caring in the slightest that Megatron had called in the middle of things. _Megatron_. Even Grimlock would put combat on hold if the leader of the Decepticons called, but apparently Kup had different priorities. He’d finished off Jazz while Megatron watched, and the Decepticon had demanded the next match.

All of this led to the current absence of the old-timer, or so Grimlock was told. Events didn’t precisely line up. People got suspiciously shifty when Grimlock asked questions about how one thing had led to the other. Kup was over at the Decepticon base setting the groundwork for a cease-fire right now, but Grimlock didn’t trust everyone’s reasons for why. The reasons kept changing.

Jazz claimed it was his fault. “Couldn’t keep my mind on business,” the black-and-white Autobot said with a rueful grin. He turned his hands up in a helpless shrug. “Megatron wanted a closer look at what Kup did t’ me. Turns out he’s got negotiable standards, ‘least when Kup’s the one negotiatin’. Who knew?”

The Decepticons, evidently. There were a few names scrawled far down on Hot Rod’s list, beneath the consent form where most people stopped scrolling. Grimlock read them with some surprise. He couldn’t just go ask them how Kup had defeated them, but he could ask Kup directly. 

Kup shrugged in answer when he finally returned from the Decepticon base, cease-fire in hand. “Simplest strategy out there,” he said, clapping a hand on Grimlock’s shoulder. “I came in peace.”

“That old joke?” Hot Rod teased. “Don’t you ever get tired of using the same punchline every time?”

“Tell you what. You let me know if you want me to stop.” Kup folded his arms, legs braced shoulder-width apart and mouth set in an oddly predatory grin. “Or I can keep using it over and over, and over, and **over** …again.”

Hot Rod swallowed. Grimlock could hear his throat intakes work. “Um. No?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Grimlock glanced between them. He had the feeling he’d missed something. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
**Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 2: “Kup shows everyone that Primes are the same as any other mecha. By fragging them senseless in front of an audience.”**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Prowl dropped a dozen tablets in the doorway. He lost his jaw at the same time. A temporary cacophony of clatters and engine sputters filled the office.

No wonder the Prime hadn’t been answering his pings. If he had any attention to spare at the moment, then he was doing it wrong.

Kup looked over his shoulder but didn’t let go of Optimus’ antenna. “Good timin’.”

“Why would that be?” That…wasn’t what Prowl had wanted to say. He’d wanted to demand an explanation for this -- this public debauchery. The door wasn’t even locked! The Prime was _on duty!_

The Prime had his face buried in Kup’s interface array, by the looks of it. An explanation probably wasn’t necessary. Actually, this explained a lot about the afternoon. Hot Rod had been causing a commotion in the recreation room for two hours straight. Prowl had been on the verge of sending Ironhide down there to haul people out of line and back to their neglected duty-stations, but from the looks of things, allowing everyone a chance to sign the correct forms would be a wiser idea. Kup appeared to be in a _mood_.

From the smirk Kup gave him, Prowl realized asking for further information would only draw out the embarrassment. The only one looking a fool in this sort of situation was the mech who walked in and made a scene out of a private affair. Nobody but a fool would risk not getting his turn by making a scene.

“Good timin’ because I was tryin’ to decide who’s next,” Kup said. “Congrats. Clear your schedule.”

Prowl wanted to say something dignified about duty and consent and how severely he’d underestimated Kup’s flexibility. He didn’t say anything because it would come out as a spluttered, incoherent ramble. He was fairly sure he’d end up trailing off in the middle of a comment on his disapproval of putting feet up on the Prime’s headrest. One foot, anyway. Kup’s other knee was wedged between Optimus’ thighs, rocking pressure and heat against strategically placed knots. Aramid rope tethered the back of the Prime’s neck to where his forearms were stacked at the small of his back, forcing an arch backward, and rope from his wrists wrapped around his midriff. The intricate knotwork around his windshields led downward. Kup had obviously been indulging Optimus’ love of bondage. Wire twist-ties held even the Prime’s windshield wipers in place. 

As Prowl watched, mouth dry, Kup let go with one hand in order to give the left wiper a rough tweak.

Washer fluid sprayed across glass and metal in highly pressurized spurts. Kup let go, but both wipers quivered upright a moment longer. They dribbled two more spritzes before relaxing. 

Optimus groaned, but it was muffled by the socket his tongue was stuffed up, mouth sealed around the rim. Kup’s knee shifted a couple of inches and resumed rocking. The back of Prowl’s mind measured their rhythm and found it a one-in-five beat. For every five licks or sucks Optimus lavished on Kup’s array, Kup rewarded his efforts by rocking into the complicated rope harness that held the Prime in place on the chair. A one-in-five pattern would explain the speed of Optimus’ mouthing. The rhythm slowly picked up.

Prowl’s engine hitched in time. Between hitches, it purred. Oh. 

Prowl quickly downgraded the incident from _‘Public Debauchery’_ to _‘Leading by Example’_ and excused himself from the room before he asked to join in. He made sure to lock the door as he left. 

It wasn’t fair to use his rank to cut in line, but he had an important appointment to prepare for. He couldn’t afford to wait patiently for his turn. He took the stylus from Hot Rod’s hand and signed, refusing to meet anyone’s optics. Jazz was quite surprised to have Prowl’s workload dumped on him for the rest of the day, but Prowl believed in contingency measures and Jazz was conveniently right there waiting in line. The upcoming meeting was going to require all his attention and energy. Jazz would just have to deal with it. 

He decided it’d be wise to mark the Prime as off-duty for the near future, and himself for good measure. He might not be fit for duty. Kup hadn’t given him enough advance notice to prepare adequately. His engine was still running hot, which wasn’t a healthy thing for an officer in his position. Certain preventative measures should be taken if such symptoms continued, and he intended them to. 

Prowl cleared his desk and sat down to wait, hands laced together on the open desktop. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 3: “Ironhide and Kup doing an old-mech team-up on Optimus to show their appreciation for their leader.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Oooooh no you don’t.” Ironhide laughed out loud as Kup walked out of the Prime’s office, looped an arm around his waist, and walked right back in. “You get in here and help me show Optimus a good time.”

Ironhide went with the pull. He’d already signed the right forms for this, so why not? 

He was glad he had when he saw what Kup had done to their Prime. “Ya sure he can take much more?”

Kup grinned and yanked him closer, age-roughened plating snugged tight to Ironhide’s slightly smoother side. Roused high-voltage energy flirted against the red mech’s circuits. “C’mon, don’t talk bad ‘bout the young’uns. They’re soooooo much better than us old-timers, remember? Younger, more energetic, able to outrun, out-gun, and out-fun anybody who onlined before the metal for their struts was mined. He can take more.” The evil glint in his optics spoke of revenge, not that anybody wouldn’t have been able to tell he was mocking the younger generations who spouted such scrap. 

Optimus blinked dazedly up at them. “…more?” Overclocked processors had shut down after the last overload. They were still rebooting and not up to speed, yet.

“Don’t mind if we do,” chorused back at him. Red and grey-green approached as a single warm presence, EM fields reaching out ahead of their hands to tease and tug at the exhausted flicker from his own wires. Gentle, affectionate amusement caressed under his armor, energy flavored by long friendship and longer experience. Ironhide and Kup blurred together amidst the static filling his vision, but the touch of their hands was nearly as difficult to tell apart. Both ran warm fingers along the rope harness, and heat blushed under them, spreading arousal in after-images of erotic memory through his sensor network as they reminded him of what the careful stroking could become.

Optimus had no idea how adorable his doofy smile was as he looked up at them. He was as unused to anyone seeing his face as they were to seeing him. This was no place for Optimus Prime their commander, however. This was a time stolen from the war for Optimus Prime. They intended to bring their leader relief, release, and hold him down so he could let go. Of all the things they couldn’t spare him, they could still give him this.

One of them claimed his mouth for an extended kiss. He pushed into the lingering sweetness of tongue and lips playing over his own, asking for more pressure on rarely used parts. They still tingled from electric discharge, the shape of Kup’s primary connection socket pinched into his lower lip and a melted patch on his tongue where the shock fused the thin, flexible plating. He hummed into the kiss, optics squinching from pleasure deepened by the little pains. It was an exquisite contrast made into an aching, breathless bliss he tried to burn into his memory. He used his mouth so infrequently. It felt so good to have the reminder that his battlemask was everything. Someday, he’d have this again. 

He savored how pleasure and pain danced over activated sensors, moaning protest when the kiss finally broke. No, _please_. He hadn’t been ready for it to end. 

A finger pressed to his lips. “Shhhh.”

He licked it.

“Heh. Impatient.”

“Aw, he’s been a good mech. Here, lemme give ‘im…” Fingertips pushed against his lips, then into his mouth when he opened his mouth. Optimus’ optics squinted in pleasure. “There ya go. That’s better.” His antenna vibrated as a hand pinched their tips, one after another, and the fingers in his mouth flattened his tongue. Small, sloppy, happy sounds leaked around the fingers, and the two mechs standing over him chuckled softly as they fondled and finger-fragged him until charge buzzed through his lines.

“Here, let’s trade off. Don’t stop. You sit here.” 

A heavy weight settled onto his right knee. Optimus’ rebooted processors identified it as Ironhide, but his friend’s fingers didn’t stop their slow exploration of the inside of his mouth. Optimus decided to dim his optics and concentrate on them. 

“I’ll just…” Kup cut into his field of vision, faded gray-green plating in front of Ironhide’s red. Heavy weight sat down on Optimus’ left knee, followed immediately by that weight leaning against his chest. 

“That can’t be good for your back,” Ironhide said. He sounded doubtful.

Kup was old. He probably needed extra support. Optimus automatically tried to wrap his arms around the older Autobot as support, but trying to move dug something thick and rounded into his primary port. He gasped, blinking rapidly. Knots, his processors finally recalled. The tight friction sawing around his plug was two cables crossed over and around it. Every time he moved his arms, the knot pressed into him. Every time his hips shifted, the cables rubbed the base of his plug. Squirming was a blissful torture.

His fans sucked air frantically, and he closed his lips to suck just as desperately at the fingers fragging his mouth. “Mmmph!”

A hand patted him on the chest. “You let me worry about my back. Now, come here and get this show on the road.” Kup used the same hand to catch Ironhide by the back of the neck, drawing him close. 

Ironhide leaned in eagerly. His fingers slid out with a slick wet sound, but he took hold of Optimus’ chin.

Their Prime, leader, commander, and friend whispered entreaties into the kiss. Ironhide mumbled reassurance back. They’d take care of him.

Kup chuckled from between them, tucked under their chins. They made the same exact sound when he set to nibbling on their throats. 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
**Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 4: “the Prowl follow-up.”**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

“Please…” Optics wide and blind, Prowl dug his chevron into the desk. “Oh, please.”

Kup laughed. It burred low, a vibration more than a sound, and it trembled through Prowl’s metal until his spark shook. Kup couldn’t have closed a hand around his spark as erotically as the low, lewd laugh did. It kneaded into his chest and warmed his struts. 

Prowl squirmed, optics dimming. One chevron tip dug a furrow into the desk. The other bent the slightest bit as he rocked his head back and forth. The slight pains were meant to ground him, help him regain control, but the massage of fingers up his back paused artfully.

“Please,” he bleated right on cue.

They started their slow torment back down. His backstruts bowed up into them, desperate to direct the warm presence breathing on the back of his neck. Kup laughed again, thrumming hard. Prowl’s visual feed broke into snow and static until his elder relented. Tension-shaking joints collapsed on cue, dumping the black-and-white Autobot flat on his face, bent over the desk. His doors shook, fine tremors where hyper-sensitive nervous system clusters screamed for pressure along the edges, on the undersides, but Kup’s skills in pleasure could be used to evade as well as seek. 

The old-timer pet doors held tight and high before him, ignoring the urgent pulse of electricity reaching out to him for completion. He pushed his hands between them, palms flat on the glass. Rising charge rushed through the metal all around the door windows, and Prowl’s engine whined and hiccupped. Kup calmly moved the doors apart and went back to massaging down his back. Fingers parted around the spots they were most desired, tracing extra circles with teasingly light pulses of energy from Kup’s circuitry, and then they moved on. Prowl’s mouth opened against the desk. He panted. He moaned silently. 

Kup turned his hands and braced his palms against Prowl’s back, bypassing the bottom edge of the cop car’s roof. He put his weight behind vigorous rubbing _just below_ the tender, throbbing line of sensors that had been begging for attention for the last hour. His fingers massaged. His EM field pushed out to lick over wires brimming with charge, and sharp, short jolts of energy transmitted like tiny lightning bolts between them. 

Prowl jerked on the desk each time. His mouth left a wet circle on the desk as he rolled his helm to the side, optics glazed and unseeing. His thighs twitched and shivered against the desk, making it jitter under him, and his hands curled around the far edge. Kup smirked down at his taut, nearly agonized expression. 

“Please,” got through the stuttered hitches of a ventilation system working overtime. “Please. I’ll take more breaks. I’ll drive an hour every day. I’ll leave all my work here when I go to take my energon ration. Please.”

“Hmmm.” Kup was not convinced of Prowl’s sincerity. Thumbs dragged up the center of the officer’s back. 

Prowl keened as they stopped just short of his lightbar. So close. So…slagging… _close!_ “ **Please** ,” he sobbed. “What do you **want**?!”

Nope, not buying it. He’d surrendered too easily. He wouldn’t keep his promises if Kup relented right now. The only way to make a lesson stick was to really make it memorable. It’d been too long since he’d done this. Prowl had a lot of self-imposed control issues built up, and it looked as though they’d be working through them the hard way.

“Still too tense,” Kup judged. “Give me your hand.” 

The old mech had to pry the fingers up one by one. Tsk-tsk. Far, far too tense.

Prowl burrowed his face into the desk and prayed to Primus for deliverance as the Kup started a hand massage. Thumb tips stroked between thumb and forefinger, testing the tender stretch and waking it for further exploitation. Which this certainly was. Kup was subverting Prowl’s own body into an unfair advantage. It was guerilla warfare against his sense of duty and need for control. Primus help him, he was so screwed. 

Kup followed the thumbs’ joint hinges, and Prowl swallowed a whimper when he discovered the worn point from countless hours holding his hand in the same position to write reports. He’d thought Kup’s laughter was torture enough, but the rough rev of an old engine rattled his systems like an earthquake hitting a china shop. Paired with how thumb tips pushed into and slid _up_ the hinge his hand, Prowl didn’t stand a chance.

“I’ll delegate more often!” he panted when he could speak again.

“Better, but not enough.” Kup propped a hip on the desk and took his time drawing interesting noises out of Prowl. Thumbs digging into the officer’s palm became cradling his hand while Kup’s thumb pads pushed into strained mechanisms in his wrist. Clever fingers worked into the cables on the other side. 

“N-no more ‘sass’?” Prowl asked, voice rising in a weird warble as Kup bent to kiss the inside of his wrist. “I’ll -- I’ll stop. I will.”

Kup swiped his tongue across the exposed joint as if he could sense Prowl’s sincerity by taste. “Hmm.” He laid a trail of kisses into the palm of Prowl’s hand while he thought it over. 

No. Not enough, yet.

He separated Prowl’s forefinger out from the rest. “Relax.”

“Please, just give me a hint, please please -- “ Prowl swore his optics rolled up in their sockets as Kup firmly pulled, stretching cables he hadn’t even known were cramped from constant use until they elongated in one euphoric _pop_. If not for the steadily more urgent burn from his interface array, he could have easily mistaken it for overload. Pleasure spiked up his arm, burned low in his tanks, and _throbbed_ in slow, ebbing waves through his spark. 

Kup eased off the pull, rolling Prowl’s knuckle joints to ground the stunned, whimpering mech. Violently shaking doors lowered, trembling in the aftershocks, but Prowl eventually surfaced from the rush of release. 

“…please.”

“That’s one.” Kup had him by the elbow, half supporting him and half holding him in place. The next finger was selected. Prowl whined thinly. Kup smiled.

“I’ll take a vacation!”

“Mmmm, no. Good try, though.” 

_Pop._

“Oh, please. Oh Primus, oh dear Cybertron. Please!” He was so, so glad he’d cleared his schedule for the next two days. Kup wasn’t going to stop until he’d reduced Prowl to a weakly pleading puddle of splayed doors and drooped plating. He’d promise the moon before Kup was satisfied, and he’d do everything he said and more afterward.

 _Pop_. 

A squeal split the air. Kup pet the back of his hand through the shuddering, shivering waves of pleasure. Prowl’s words slurred slightly, but he ignored the begging. He wasn’t one to leave a job unfinished.

Seven more to go.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 5: “something with Bumblebee in it.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Usually, Bumblebee batted away any hands placed on his head. He was short. Minibot, right? It wasn’t like he’d forget that somehow. The other Autobots didn’t tend to rub his lack of height in his face, but the occasional condescending gesture got through. He didn’t appreciate it and set them straight with a bluntness Cliffjumper applauded. Short jokes weren’t funny.

So Spike was confused when Kup walked into the repairbay and put a hand on Bumblebee’s helm, easy as anything. Kup wasn’t a jerk, so it seemed out of character. Even stranger, Bumblebee didn’t duck out from under Kup’s hand. 

The human blinked a few times up at the two of them but shrugged it off. Kup had an easygoing affectionate air that he’d seen bypass other people’s boundaries. Maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. Bumblebee leaned into Kup’s hand, but in Spike’s experience, Bumblebee liked friendly contact more than the rest of the Autobots. It might just be Kup indulging his friend.

Well, Spike wasn’t going to say anything about it if Bumblebee was okay with it. The human nodded his hellos to the taller Autobot and went back to working on the junker car he was fixing up for Carly. Carly wanted something human-made to turn into a mad scientist experiment of Cybertronian and Terran technology. It was the third car sacrificed to the cause, and Spike figured getting her a crap car that barely ran in the first place would be fine. Wheeljack had exploded the engine on the last one on purpose, anyway, and Carly had gutted the first car completely. There was no point in handing them a useable car. 

Working on the junker gave him something to do with his hands while chewing over diplomatic quandaries, in any case. Being the Earth Ambassador was tougher than just not getting shot by Decepticons. In fact, he sort of preferred dodging bullets.

“Hey, Kup. Can you tell me about Cybertron’s moons?” he called from under the hood. Might as well mine Kup for information while he was here.

Metal scraped and clanged quietly as Kup moved his hand a bit. “Whatcha want to know, Spike?”

Bumblebee’s engine turned over quietly during the conversation, but Spike’s friend stayed out of the discussion for the most part. He added a couple “Mmhmm” or “ **mm** -mm” comments when called upon, but he seemed to defer to Kup’s greater experience. Every time Spike straightened up from his work to say something or ask a question, Bumblebee was staring vacantly across the workshop. The yellow Autobot listed against Kup’s side, half-listening. Spike had already talked the moons to death with him. No wonder he’d zoned out.

Kup rested his hand on the shorter Autobot’s head the whole time, thumb and forefinger rubbing stubby sensor horns between them slow and thoughtful. The soft scraping clank became a level background noise that Spike quickly tuned out. Bumblebee’s engine revved higher as Kup got more involved in talking about the Autobot occupation of the moons, but Spike wasn’t surprised. All the Autobots were passionate about supporting the Moonbases. The sputtering choke when Kup abruptly switched topics didn’t sound healthy, but Bumblebee just shook his head at Spike’s inquiring look. 

Bumblebee’s optics were dim and strangely content after Kup left. Spike was slightly surprised Kup patted his helm goodbye without getting a smack to the hood. Ratchet couldn’t even manage that. It seemed like a pretty insulting move.

Huh. Only Kup.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
**Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 6: “Why not see if Wheeljack has anything fun that needs to be tested out?”**  
**[* * * * *]**

 

Why not, indeed.

“Oh yeah, oh wow, oh yeah, I have been **waiting** for this,” Wheeljack said. His audio indicators flickered wildly, just in case anyone in the area couldn’t tell he was beyond excited. 

Kup could tell. He could also tell how long Wheeljack had been waiting. The drawer Wheeljack opened had more in common with a closet, and the custom cut-outs for the inventions nestled within were packed in neat layers. 

Neatness went out the window right away as the engineer began digging through them for what he wanted Kup to test first. “Oo, this!” 

Kup looked at the strange plug in bemusement only to have it swiped out of his grasp almost immediately. 

“No, this! It vibrates on three settings.” 

Okay, he knew what _that_ was, but Wheeljack threw an attachment on top that he had to blink at. 

“Warm this up first or it’ll feel odd. Or maybe that’s the one you have to freeze. Uh…I better find the instructions first.” Both were taken away and replaced by what looked like a drain snake. “Okay, now **this** can be used hot or cold, but you have to get the ends in your ports at the same time or it won’t activate. You and your partner’s ports, I mean. I didn’t make one long enough to connect your own ports. Did I?” Wheeljack tapped a finger on his mask as he thought. “Maybe it’s near the bottom.” 

Back into the drawer he dove, digging further into what seemed like a portal into never-ending device. He surfaced long enough to throw something at Kup. “Okay, okay, so this one? This one can go anywhere you can stick it,” the old mech scrambled to catch the suction cups before they hit the ground, “but they’ll leave burns if you don’t take them off between uses. Fun, but dangerous.” Audio fins flickered in a visual snicker. “The best kind of ‘facing. Oooo, you have to use those with **this**.”

Kup eyed the thing being brandished at him. “Got no idea what that is, ‘Jack. Looks like what I used on Tefron-8 to do their crown prince, but I know you don’t have that equipment.”

“No, but I could build it.” The engineer was up to his shoulders by now as he tried to reach something in the back of the drawer. “See, it hooks up…to your plug and…your partner’s…almost got it…main vent fan, ha!” He yanked what he’d been after out of the drawer and held it up. “And **this** one’s for -- “

“I know what that one’s for.”

“But it’s supercharged!” And Wheeljack’s level of enthusiasm for that fact was through the roof.

“How’s that even work?”

“Well, you need two outlets and a grounding wire instead of one outlet and a partner.”

Kup just looked at him.

Audio indicators flushed a warm color. “I made it for Omega Supreme, okay?”

“Ah. Can I even use it, then?”

“If you’re going to ‘face Omega Supreme, sure. I’ve got a converter for mechs our size somewhere in here,” Wheeljack said, looking at the toys spilled all over the floor. He toed the miniature generator aside. “I think.”

Kup sauntered close enough to slide an arm around the engineer’s waist. “Alright, good enough for me. Let’s get started.”

Audio indicators stuttered like a strobe light. Wheeljack himself just stared, stunned silent.

“What, did you think I was asking for stuff to use on **other people**?” Kup frowned at Wheeljack’s nod. “Where’s the fun in that? I’d have to write evaluations afterward. ‘less you wanna supervise?” 

Wheeljack squeaked. It might have been an answer. It might have been from the squeeze to his aft. Kup couldn’t tell.

Testing was best done in person, Wheeljack agreed later, but Ratchet was always nagging him about safety measures, so maybe just once more to make sure there weren’t any errors…

 

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 7: “Someone bets the Lambo twins will have more stamina than Kup. They lose the bet. Spectacularly.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“You did that on purpose.”

“That I did.” Ratchet shot him a thoroughly wicked smirk. “I even did it for a good cause! Optimus is out of commission. Prowl’s down and out. As much as we respect the chain of command around here,” his tone implied the exact opposite, “you just don’t have the immediate command presence of either of them, outside of taking over during battle.” He put on his best saintly expression. “I did it for your sake, Jazz, I really did.”

Jazz stared. He couldn’t tell what was more astonishing: the blatant lie being touted as a virtuous truth, or how he kind of wanted to believe the lie. He looked down at the mech curled around his arm, still clinging even after being deposited on the berth. This could be considered medical support for a temporarily unstable chain of command. It was a feasible excuse. He could put it in a report. Prowl might even believe it. 

Prowl hadn’t been seen since Friday, so it wasn’t as though he’d appear out of thin air to chastise either of them. Ratchet could have done it for a malicious bet and Jazz could still make it sound nice in the reports without Prowl knowing. Suspecting, probably, but not actually knowing. Frag, Jazz suspected twelve tins of wax were going to be forked over to the medic for this, but he didn’t know scrap all. If Ratchet said it was for his sake, well, who was he to naysay the CMO? 

Sunstreaker sighed. His arms tightened, hugging Jazz’s arm a little tighter. Both black hands wrapped further around Jazz’s hand, and Sunstreaker held on as if the officer’s captured hand were some kind of comfort. The corner of Jazz’s mouth quirked up at the notion. Yep, that was Jazz, all right. Big ol’ teddybear for mean, nasty frontliners. 

His smile faded fast, however. Sunstreaker’s tight grip squeezed Jazz’s hand against golden metal, the wide warm expanse of Sunstreaker’s hood, and Jazz hesitated to struggle loose. He uncurled his hand to press the palm experimentally against Sunstreaker’s chest, fingers tentative on the perfect polish. Jazz had rarely touched Sunstreaker. The frontliner didn’t like people’s hands -- or anything -- near his precious finish. Yet now Jazz was held in place by him, and the black-and-white paused to take in the feel and sight of this unique opportunity. 

He’d never seen him at peace like this, resting in total, sated relaxation. Ratchet was unwrapping a clingy Lamborghini barnacle of his own to put on the other berth, but Sideswipe’s EM field held mischief and mayhem humming under the slow pulse of happy recharge. Even zonked out, Sideswipe’s personality stayed intact. Sunstreaker, on the other hand, radiated warmth as bright as his namesake. It glittered gold to Jazz’s sensors, standing out from his plating to brush against everyone and everything nearby, indiscriminate as sunlight. A smile like a sunbeam touched his face, there and gone again, intangible and impossible to grasp.

It left Jazz’s worries somehow lightened for having seen it. He wondered how deep Sunstreaker was in recharge to free this cuddly side.

“Knocked cold,” Ratchet said as if he’d heard Jazz’s thoughts. The medic straightened up and smiled down at the _Ark_ ’s resident troublemaker. A leg had already managed to slip off the side of the berth as Sideswipe shifted into a sprawl. 

A thrill of stray energy giggled around the room, pattering fingers of glee against Jazz’s energy field for a split second before Sideswipe slid deeper into recharge, taking his dreamtime amusement with him. Jazz smiled on reflex. He didn’t know what the joke was, but Sideswipe obviously thought it hilarious.

Ratchet gave Jazz and Sunstreaker a shrewd look. He’d seen the clinging. He felt the summer-day warmth pouring off Sunstreaker’s prone form. “They needed the assist as much as you did.”

Jazz cast the floor a beseeching look and set about prying Sunstreaker loose. “Yeah, thanks. Tactical sedation of the forces of Chaos. Keeps them outta trouble and outta my way. Real helpful, Ratch’.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.” The medic set a hand on his shoulder just long enough to meet Jazz’s visor before patiently beginning to pick at Sunstreaker’s fingers. “It’s been a long, long time since Kup’s felt he has something to prove, and they’ve gone just as long without a challenge that isn’t somehow violent or terrible. All I did was put them in the right mindset to really make his point. He took things from there. Knowing Kup, he’ll handle them on the rebound just as easily as he wrangles Hot Rod. If tricking them into getting plowed served my purposes at the same time, well, neither of us will be enlightening them anytime soon on my diabolical master plan.” He took a moment to tap a finger first on the side of Jazz’s helm, then his own. “Our secret.”

Jazz thought about it for a short while. “Does this make me co-conspirator?” 

“Accessory to long-term medical strategic planning,” Ratchet corrected.

“Sounds dirty. Mwahaha,” he tried. Hmm. Evil laughter was harder to get right than he’d thought. 

Ratchet just shook his head and looked down at the frontliner stubbornly attached to Jazz. “One night with Kup’s spared them a week of bickering and whining about me kicking them off-duty for extended recovery leave.”

His fellow officer was silent for a long moment. “That bad, huh?” he asked at last.

“I’d have signed the whole ship up myself if I didn’t see most of the roster already on the consent form when I signed,” Ratchet said. “Kup’s doing us all a favor, doing us.” A smile flickered across his face. “It’s probably for the best we don’t think about that too closely.”

Unfortunately, Jazz proceeded to do exactly that. He couldn’t stop himself. 

Suddenly, Kup’s seduction of the Autobots had a coldly calculating side tempered only by the sense of compassion Jazz knew was held in Kup’s spark. And a hearty heaping helping of lust. That, too. It was sort of chilling but comforting in a way -- and that way was Kup boosting their flagging mental health via interfacing them halfway to Cybertron and back again.

“Explains why Blaster’s been playin’ _’Sexual Healing’_ nonstop on the bridge,” he said slowly.

“Mm.” 

Sunstreaker inhaled a long, slow breath and released it. It was the most satisfied ventilation cycle Jazz had ever heard. In its wake, the mech relaxed into a loose sprawl of combat-grade armor and strutless bliss. His hold relaxed as well, and Jazz eased his arm free. He stayed at the frontliner’s side instead of leaving, just standing there looking down at the golden warrior. He had never, ever seen Sunstreaker so _taken care of_. He hadn’t even known Sunstreaker _could_ relax like this, much less known how to bring that fleeting smile to his face.

The twins had challenged Kup directly after a few needling comments from Ratchet about stamina, just walked right up and jeered in his face. They’d come out the losers on whatever endurance contest had gone on behind the doors of Kup’s quarters, but they didn’t look as though losing had been a hardship. It was hard to look at either of them and think that they’d gotten the bad end of the deal.

Kup had supported them both back to the common room, red and gold leaning on his shoulders with his arms around their waists, and he’d swatted their afts as he steered them toward the nearest chairs. Jazz and Ratchet had been very surprised to have exhausted, stumbling frontliners deposited in their laps. Kup had thrown a laugh over his shoulder and swaggered out the door to the sound of the room applauding his exit, but Sunstreaker and Sideswipe hadn’t even had the energy to watch him go. They’d mumbled sleepy nonwords, curled up on their unexpectedly comfortable commanding officers, and gone right to sleep.

Not the sleep of frontliners waiting for action. Jazz knew that kind of sleep. Every Autobot had settled into that routine, running on the edge of waking in case an attack came while they were powered down. It got the job done but wasn’t truly restful. He didn’t think Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had ever slept any other way, knowing their history. Cybertron hadn’t been kind to the twins, before or during the war.

Someone had been kind, however. Kup had showed these two kindness they could trust to an extent Jazz had never seen in them. His hand had been pressed to Sunstreaker’s chest. The spark under Jazz’s palm had turned in languid recharge, true deep sleep. 

Sunstreaker rested. Jazz looked down at him and flexed his hand, remembering the feel of warm metal and sunshine. “Bolt me if I don’t hate being the responsible one for a change,” he muttered.

Ratchet laughed. “Wait your turn.”

 

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 8: “Kup the Duty Officer (Candy from Strangers ficlet continuation).”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Ultra Magnus hadn’t been aware that he had an appointment until his schedule pinged him. He looked up from his work and blinked, surprised. Since when had that been scheduled? He hadn’t had an appointment with Kup since the old sergeant first arrived on Earth. That had been…too long ago, now that he thought about it.

Quite overdue for an appointment, it seemed.

“I apologize that I cannot make the drive to the _Ark_ at this time,” he said the moment Kup picked up the call. “I wasn’t aware of the appointment until just now. Is it possible to reschedule for next week?” Kup had an irregular schedule depending on needs changed among the Autobots, and Ultra Magnus had no way of knowing that schedule beforehand. The Duty Officer’s privacy was as respected as any therapist’s. 

The audio-only call meant he couldn’t see the old mech’s expression, but disappointment saturated Kup’s voice. “Magnus, Magnus, Mags. What kinda example you setting for your mechs? You neglect yourself, an’ you know one of the glitches will use it as an excuse to skip their appointments.”

He did know. Ultra Magnus looked down at the pile of work on his desk. The foundations of what would soon become Autobot City wouldn’t build themselves, but Kup could guilt a Grecian statue into playing with itself. Ultra Magnus began rearranging his schedule. “Will tomorrow afternoon work?”

Kup snorted. “It will, but you ain’t getting off that easy. You’ve got homework. You watch this,” a link pinged his inbox, “and I don’t want any commentary on the whys and wherefores. You take notes on how you feel about the what, not the whom. Got it?”

The link led to a live video feed, which Ultra Magnus only realized once he’d been staring for a full two minutes. The way Kup hung up by the end of the first minute, the Duty Officer must have figured his attention was caught. The elderly Autobot stepped into sight on the video and mouthed, “Take notes!” at the camera before turning back to what he’d been doing before Ultra Magnus called.

Really, once Ultra Magnus got over the fact that Kup was doing two Decepticons, it was a fascinating video. He took many notes.

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Pt. 9

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 9: “Dom Kup with sub Blast Off the table.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

They could hear the click of a commlink disengaging, and relatively small footsteps approached. “Now, where were we?” 

Onslaught’s hands dented broad shoulders as he shuddered. He couldn’t help it. There was something to the gravelly voice that swept his feet out from under him and weakened his knees. From the way Blast Off’s head turned to press against his hand, he wasn’t alone in that reaction.

Megatron could force them to their knees. He could order them down, put their pride in the dust, and step on the backs of their necks. He could humble them.

He couldn’t make them like it. Unlike the mech retaking his place at Onslaught’s side, he couldn’t make the Combaticons _want_ to serve.

It made Onslaught feel entirely unsettled.

“Right. Here we go. Now, you got him down. Feel that?” Old hands tightened over the back of Onslaught’s hands. “You feel him vent?”

“Yes,” Onslaught said, barely audible. 

“He’s not calm. Whaddya do when your sub’s not calm or there’s been an unexpected break in the play?”

Onslaught reset his vocalizer and picked his words with care: “Green, yellow, or red?” He didn’t quite understand why they were using human traffic signal colors, but it certainly made things clearer than the usual Decepticon take on powerplay. Somebody inevitably snapped in Decepticon powerplay. It was the Russian Roulette of sexual games. 

Blast Off hesitated, fans doing that subtle hitch again. “…yellow.”

The Combaticon commander stood up hastily, fast enough that Kup didn’t have to pull him this time. Part of him wistfully recalled being yanked around, but Onslaught smothered it as best he could. No. Bad Onslaught. 

“Whoa!” The old-timer’s hand gentled him, warm on the small of his back. Onslaught could hear but not see the silvery sound of long, soothing strokes down Blast Off’s back. “Calm down, calm down,” was directed at Onslaught. “He needs a step back, not a full stop. That right?” The petting ended on a solid tapping sound.

“Yes.” A sharper tap. “Yes **sir**!” Blast Off said.

“Awright. You know what to do.” The hand on Onslaught’s back urged him forward.

His internal parts tangled up in embarrassment, but that hand on his back never left. It felt undeniably awkward to be supervised, but awkward was better than ignorant. Ignorant had gotten them nothing but two weeks of sniping comments interspersed by stony silence. Onslaught had eventually paid Swindle to apologize for him, and Blast Off had admitted via the round-about means of telling Vortex that he didn’t actually know what he was doing. 

Neither of them knew what they were doing, as it turned out. That’s why they were here to learn. There had been…rumors…about some kind of consent form making the rounds of the Decepticon base after the lead trine went AWOL and reappeared two days later. Nobody knew who it was from. Nobody knew where it disappeared to when people ( _*cough*_ Soundwave _*cough*_ ) got suspicious and went looking for it. All anyone knew was that Skywarp’s EM field was smooth as clean oil and Thundercracker purred when he fell asleep draped on Starscream’s shoulder, which he did strangely often, now. Starscream himself didn’t bother shrugging his wingmate off the third time it happened. 

He hadn’t looked up from whatever he was working on when Onslaught cautiously asked about the there and gone again consent form. He’d simply handed over the form -- Onslaught still had no idea where it’d come from -- and waved him away. A moment later he’d absently pushed Thundercracker back up onto his shoulder as the blue flyer started to slide down.

Onslaught had stared for a few seconds before reminding himself that he had more important things to do. Namely, signing the mysterious consent form and attaching his contact information, hoping for a response.

He’d gotten one. Kup had agreed to teach them. Convincing Blast Off to go along with the proposed lessons hadn’t taken half as long as Onslaught had expected, once he’d explained that they wouldn’t be actively fragging the Autobot. Lessons, not interfacing. Autobots had novel ideas about consent and power dynamics. It sure couldn’t hurt the two of them to at least listen to what the old clank had to say.

Since his teaching style was 80% them feeling their way and 20% hands-on instruction from him, it’d been going fairly well. Awkward, but well. Onslaught fumbled his way through backtracking through the scene to find where Blast Off had started getting uneasy, and the watchful EM field beside him thrummed approval of his, er, handling of his subordinate. Submissive. Teammate with whom he was having intimate relations with in various kinky configurations.

Hence the reason they’d found a teacher. The kinky configurations were moving in the realm where miscommunications were disrupting the whole team, not just the two of them. As awkward as this was, they didn’t dare turn down the opportunity to learn. The fact that their teacher was an Autobot just made things more complicated than they already were. 

Where there was a libido, there was a way. The blindfolds covering their visors gave them plausible deniability. They were Decepticons learning the ins and outs of consensual powerplay from someone they _knew_ was an Autobot, but the loyalty programming embedded into their hard code didn’t _know_ -know he was an Autobot. They walked a fine line, here. 

Kup was all about fine lines. 

“I liked it when you were, um,” Blast Off squirmed, hands and knees scraping in the dirt, “both on top of me.”

Onslaught stiffened uneasily. Those brief minutes of learning how two people could include a piece of living furniture in their fragging burned gloriously bright in his own mind, too, but it’d been a _demonstration_. Kup had only stepped into play in order to show them how it was done. They couldn’t ask the Autobot to join in. 

Especially since Kup had been on top of _him_. A dominant couldn’t have a submissive and _be_ a submissive at the same time. 

Right?

“You like being a table in use, huh?” Kup sounded thoughtful, not repulsed. His fingers traced a nonsense pattern on the small of Onslaught’s back. “Your move. Your sub said what he likes. What do you do?” His gravelly voice made the question into a lascivious invitation.

Onslaught’s knees buckled.

Maybe not.

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Pt. 10

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 10: “Old mechs show them how it’s done.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Most orns, Ratchet couldn’t interest the rest of the _Ark_ in the medbay’s small library of instructional manuals to save their lives.

Ever since Wheeljack’s ravishment -- for lack of a more dramatic term, because dear holy Primus, _the explosion hadn’t even been the main event_ \-- Ratchet hadn’t been able to able to keep the bookfiles on the shelves. A pity Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had scoffed at the idea of research. They might have lasted longer had they read up on proper technique instead of just winging it.

It was too late for them, but the rest of the Autobots seemed to have taken the lesson to spark. There had been a rush on the medbay. Library cards had become badges of honor. First Aid’s interfacing safety classes were suddenly packed, standing room only, which made the technique demo part of the class very much an audience participation thing. 

Currently, the medbay was silent except for the occasional short exclamation of shock. Six Autobots, all of them totally absorbed in their reading. Ratchet put his hands on his hips and surveyed his domain, nodding to himself. Excellent. Everyone in good health, learning stuff. He liked it when his patients learned stuff. It generally meant he didn’t have to teach them himself, or fix them after they tried things without following the instructions. 

Jazz had given him the big pleading visor of cyberpuppies everywhere when Ratchet had caught him playing hooky from filling the top three ranks by himself. It’d bought the black-and-white mech thirty minutes. He and Cliffjumper were using that half an hour to share the pop-up hologram bookfile on advanced connection circuits. Their expressions bounced between interested and stunned. Appropriate expressions for a bookfile entitled _’This Goes There: An Engineer’s Erotic Guide.’_ Ratchet had always liked the illustrations on that one. 

Arcee slipped through the medbay’s doors, library card in hand, but Ratchet held up a hand to refuse her. “These won’t help you,” he said in a hushed tone. “Wait ten more minutes and you can take his place.” He nodded at Jazz, who had his head cocked sideways as he and Cliffjumper tried to see under the hologram model’s hood. Ratchet shook his head at their stupidity.

Confused, Arcee looked at the two bookfiles currently on the shelf. “But -- “

Ratchet reached out to turn them so she could see the author. “Trust me, Arcee. These won’t help you.” Her optics rounded. She’s been in Kup’s unit too long not to have heard those instructions told in story format seven times over. “Actually, if you know the stories by spark, you could do everyone a favor by retelling them in the rec room tonight. He’s a better storyteller than writer, to be honest, and I think most people are just checking these manuals out so they can rev up over the pictures.” The instructions were useful but dull compared to Kup’s tale of how he’d learned to interface upside-down, over a barrel, underwater, using only rapid databursts.

Arcee looked thoughtful. “I could do that, but it’d help if I had some visual aids.”

Arms stole around Ratchet from behind, and the medic started in surprise. “But where are we gonna find a tank that big?” a familiar voice asked into his audio.

Arcee smiled. “Leave that to me.”

“We’ll be there.” Kup pulled Ratchet back toward the CMO’s office. “Eventually.”

**[* * * * *]**


	11. Pt. 11

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Herzspalter wanted to see Perceptor get his turn. Thank you!

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 11: “Perceptor narrates everything.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Perceptor was mildly annoyed to be roped into coordinating such a spectacle, but Arcee had insisted he help in readying the recreation room. He couldn’t object to her reasoning. He was the only one capable of assembling the required props in such a short amount of time. The tank, of course, had to be disassembled and transported in pieces under his careful supervision for reassembly in the recreation room. 

Brawn and Gears gave him pieces of their minds over what they called ‘silly’ and ‘feeding Kup’s ego.’ If one were to listen to them, Kup was incapable of interfacing without copious intake of prescriptions taken nightly from the depths of Ratchet’s pharmacy. They stopped complaining when Perceptor agreed that there was no need for their aid in carrying the props, since there were other volunteers available to assist him. His inquiry as to which of them would like to surrender their places in the front row was met with sullen silence. Not surprisingly, neither wanted to miss the chance to observe Kup in action. 

Bringing the demonstration out into public made it eligible for credit hours toward every Autobot’s mandatory Health & Safety continued education. It would have been enough to draw a crowd even without the promise of a show.

“I could get out a laserpointer and make it a purely educational course, but that seems a tad rude,” Hoist told the slowly-assembling audience in the recreation room as Perceptor glued the tank back together. “We’ll already be putting performance pressure on the poor dears. Having them stop at key points would be torture, quite frankly. Simply unacceptable manners, I say!”

Grapple held one side of the tank in place and gave his friend a shrewd look. “Rude? Ha! More like you’ll get distracted and forget to highlight the good parts.”

“A distinct possibility,” Hoist admitted. “This isn’t neuro-surgery, you must admit.”

“But it doesn’t count for credit hours unless somebody’s explaining what’s going on! I mean,” Hot Rod shrugged, “we know what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody’s actually ever **seen** the underwater part. Upside-down, sure, but nobody’s really done everything at once. Even the manuals have illustrations, not pictures.”

“I think it’ll be pretty self-explanatory,” Grapple said dryly.

Arcee looked up from the group huddled around the policy handbook. “Guys, he’s right. Ratchet’s not going to be in any shape for live instructional narration. We can watch it later for credit if he does a voiceover on the holovid, because that’s an educational video credit,” she pointed at something in the policy, “but we’re just watching a live porn show unless there’s a teacher present telling us why we’re learning important life information by watching. Somebody has to make it educational.”

There was a short moment of silence. Everyone was pointedly not looking at one mech in particular.

Perceptor wiggled the tank to ensure the glue was set before he straightened up and sighed, resigned to his fate. “Very well. You may cease your round-about attempts at peer pressure; I will stand in as instructor.” Wide grins met his announcement, and Grapple clapped a hand on his shoulder.

He hadn’t intended to stay for the actual demonstration, having figured out all interfacing configurations in theory during his stint in the Academy, but he didn’t truly mind. Having an audience paying breathless, rapt attention to his lectures was always a pleasure. He realized that most of them were tuning out his words completely in favor of the action, but Skyfire and Wheeljack were hanging off his every word, and he knew the publication of an academic paper on the subject later would send the human science community into an uproar. It never failed to amuse him that a large percentage of his human colleagues believed ‘advanced mechanical species’ equated to ‘constructed without sexual desire.’ The Cybertronian species did not engage in procreational sex as humankind did, but they did engage in recreational sex, often with many of the same societal aspects human sex carried.

Minus the shame, he idly noted in the back of his mind where unfinished ideas for future projects were filed. Some of the religious associations were similar in certain sects, however. He should study the progression of human sexuality through Earth’s history and see if there were any parallels in Cybertron’s history.

Kup’s efforts to exceed the limitations of their frames weren’t successful, but Perceptor informed the class of how close he’d gotten. Ratchet had to be fished out of the tank afterward, which was a success by other measures. The scientist judged the demonstration finished once Kup boosted Ratchet up for Hot Rod to grab a hold on, and he began breaking down the recording equipment. 

He was busy doing that when a hand caught his elbow. Perceptor started, almost dropping the camera stand, but Kup’s reflexes were unhindered by age. The stand was taken out of his hand and put aside. 

“Whatcha think you’re doing?” was said in his audio, purposefully blowing heated air into the thin armor over the receptors. “We’re not done teachin’ the kiddies.” One hand gestured at the suddenly motionless audience. The crowd had been dispersing, many of them partnering up, but now every scrap of attention fixated on how Kup opened his mouth and used his tongue alone to turn the focusing dial on Perceptor’s shoulder-mounted scope. Calming fan rates accelerated into a background whirr filling the room again.

“I wasn’t aware that I had volunteered for teaching a second session,” Perceptor objected faintly. He’d signed the consent form knowing this might happen, but nothing in his imagined scenarios involved Kup ambushing him from behind. The old sergeant moved slowly around him, molesting his scope as he went, and Perceptor didn’t know how to react. He was used to being the taller one in any given pairing among Autobots. Foreplay outside of the berth tended to revolve around his partners, not himself, as his erogenous zones weren’t easily accessible by shorter mechs while standing. 

Kup had gotten around the obstacle of Perceptor’s height by waiting until the scientist knelt to pack up recording equipment. Perceptor’s vents flared to expedite heat expulsion. At the current rate of system reaction, his ventilation system would keep him within safe parameters for precisely four breems.

Hot moisture clouded the lens. Kup slowly dragged his tongue up through it and drew a zig-zag back down with just his tongue tip. He breathed unfiltered exhaust again, hot and sooty from his engine, and the miniscule impacts from the particles on the sensitized lens spread glittering sparks of heat throughout Perceptor’s sensor network as the rising swell of pleasure transferred from wire to wire, data crossing dense module clusters in tiny bursts of energy output he couldn’t track, couldn’t control. 

Make that _approximately_ four breems. Perceptor’s body was an unfamiliar tool to him at the moment.

“My shift begins in less than an hour. Shouldn’t this be delayed until more favorable arrangements can be made?“ he asked, voice unsteady. In other words, he would be bitterly disappointed if Kup ceased stimulation of his scope lens due to poor planning. 

“Mirage’s gonna cover it,” Kup said. His lips shaped the words on the lens while his hands flattened against Perceptor’s chest, sliding apart until they framed his chestplate between them. 

“Am I?” The tone of Mirage’s voice suggested surprise, although he appeared as regal as ever to Perceptor’s optics. 

“Sure are. You trade shifts, and that’ll leave you free tonight.” Kup flashed a rogue’s grin in Mirage’s direction. “You wanna be free tonight.” 

Kup thumbed the seam of Perceptor’s chest piece in a manner the scientist’s theoretical research suggested access was desired. Reluctant to start something that couldn’t be finished in the time allowed, Perceptor hesitated to release the catches.

“Of course I do.” Composure unruffled, Mirage spun on his heel and strolled from the room. Stealth modifications made his fans nearly inaudible, but knowing looks were exchanged by those nearest to him. He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his optics at their amusement. “Someone remember to record this for later,” he ordered. “Learning experiences are not to be missed.”

Relief and embarrassment mingled in Perceptor’s thoughts, knotting logic with emotion. “I don’t believe that’s necessary -- “ Fingers twisted deftly, and his chest piece popped open without his say-so. Not that he had any further objections, mind, but it shocked him to have an important bit of protective armor bypassed with the flick of a hand. “Kup!”

“Keep talking,” Kup murmured. He -- there was no other word for it -- _burrowed_ into Perceptor’s neck, lips tantalizing light as they brushed over cables and tubes in the wake of the hard ridges of helm and nose nudging into the vulnerable area. “Education’s grand.”

Head tipping back on automatic reflex, Perceptor blinked up at the ceiling as the older mech pressed closer. “I…don’t know what to say.” Kup’s close proximity served as a privacy screen as sparklight was coaxed out from under layers of armor and altmode parts. Just as well; Perceptor had a molecule of modesty left. 

He doubted its longevity. The tender caress of a gentle hand on a spark chamber would transform anyone into a wanton parody of themselves. Kup caged his spark in fingers and hands, probing at circuitry and chassis alike in strong, throbbing pulses of charge pushed through the palms. Nothing but electromagnetic energy touched the bared whirl of his spark, but Perceptor gasped and shuddered down to his struts.

His hand rose toward his scope, reflex-memory from eons of self-servicing leading his body down ingrained habits, but Kup turned to kiss the inside of his elbow. Teeth scraped the joint, nipped at the plating of his upper arm, and Perceptor’s hand lost fine motor control, grasping wildly at the side of his scope.

“Talk,” Kup reminded him, nibbling up his arm.

For the first time in an extremely long while, Perceptor’s mind went blank. White noise hummed in his audios, and nothingness deleted his thoughts. Flashes of static and crackling light played merry havoc through his body as Kup’s EM field undulated against his spark, pushing and pulling, invading and retreating, pressing to his innermost core and teasing its fringes. The overwhelming magnitude of information available to be discovered in the universe, even the plethora of organized files on what he already knew, everything shrank down to the blunt scrape of teeth sculpting his sensor network into a bundle of live wires burning electric pleasure. He didn’t recall how to open his archived files, much less assemble the data into a coherent lecture.

Nevertheless, he had been called upon to speak. For the betterment of his fellow Autobots, as it were. If he could dictate notes during a firefight against Decepticons, how difficult could this possibly be in comparison?

Perceptor gathered his scattered wits, fixed his vocalizer in a clinical, dispassionate tone, and began talking. 

“An unexpected side-effect of observation has been my own involvement in ongoing events. The primary subject has developed an interest in my scope,” Kup laughed low, rattling Perceptor’s vocalizer where it was caught between his teeth, “a-and my voice. He is quite insistent on continued communication throughout the proposed activities. While I am, as always, appreciative of scholarly discussion, I find the timing of his request to be suspect. This is hardly the proper place or time for extensive conversation.” The dry analysis of the old mech’s absurd demand drew a laugh from the room at large. Perceptor allowed himself a small smile right before moaning quietly. Kup stirred another finger through his spark.

It took a klik to regain control over his voice. “My suspicions are drawn from in-depth analysis of the subject’s prior dalliances, none of which required more initial communication than the signing of a consent form. My notes on the consent form can be found under the interview section of the recorded tryst between primary subject and volunteer Ratchet. It is a deceptively simple form presented by secondary subject Hot Rod, who is marked for further study as part of mapping the societal structure of the Autobot army.”

“What’d **I** do?” Hot Rod squawked from somewhere in the rapt audience. 

It made Perceptor aware, once again, of the crowd watching him. Listening to him. They were actually listening to his words, not just the noises Kup’s fingers and mouth were pulling from him. Pride fed the pleasure building into a semi-solid presence in his spark, compressed plasma squirming in and around itself. 

He had to reset his optics in order to turn his face toward the audience. A question had been asked; he felt compelled to answer. “Military hierarchy has evolved into social layers determined by off-duty lifestyle instead of respective rank. Hot Rod’s position as a junior officer assigned to the primary subject does not explain the subordinate support position -- not referring to an actual physical position -- “ someone in the audience snickered, “assumed upon primary subject’s decision to interface most if not all of the Autobot population of Earth. Hot Rod’s involvement closely resembles that of which a human male might refer to as a ‘wingman,’ as he himself cites during the interview. The question I then must ask is whether Hot Rod has adapted or adopted the term and associated behaviors from Earth, or if he has assigned the human term to a collection of Cybertronian behaviors previously assigned to close friends of a subject seeking to initiate interface.”

“Smartest mech Cybertron ever produced,” Kup said into his throat. “Smelt me for tin cans if that’s not a turn-on. Keep talkin’. I like hearing an intelligent ‘bot in his element.” He freed a hand to fumble for Perceptor’s scope, sliding along it until he found Perceptor’s own hand by touch. Their fingers laced together, and Kup slowed Perceptor’s frantic circles to a languid stroking. “Mm, yeah, you keep doing that. Tell us more.”

Perceptor’s mouth fell open for auxiliary ventilation system intake, but he forced the undignified panting into bigger gulps of air that allowed him to talk at the same time. “Primary subject’s attempts at flattery are blown too far out of proportion to be taken seriously.”

“You better take me seriously.” A sharp nip reprimanded him. “Smart mech like you should know better than t’ challenge me.”

“Efforts to establish a more credible line of compliments appear unsuccessful,” Perceptor retorted. “His logic is flawed by overload-induced personal bias. Studies have shown interfacing to promote social connections between mechanical lifeforms, even those of opposing factions -- “ He blinked as Kup drew back and the crowd muttered. Disappointment colored his voice, but so did confusion. “Why are you surprised? These studies are publically available among Autobots, although I would discourage drawing erroneous conclusions about the strength of interface-established interpersonal connections. Physical relationships create a weak connection based on lust, not mental compatibility. It assists only in that it can be an opening to the possibility for further social interaction, even between those as disinclined to peaceful discourse as Autobots and Decepticons.” 

He looked around at the Autobots now staring at him for a totally different reason than mere lust. “This is not new information,” he chided them.

Kup studied him, optics strangely thoughtful. “Nope. It’s not, but I didn’t know my personal thoughts on the matter had scientific backin’. Whaddya know.” Something about how the old mech said broke a tiny fragment of alarm off the warm arousal clouding his mind, but Kup leaned back into him before Perceptor could pursue it. “So. I like smarts. I like smart mechs, I like smart femmes, I like smart aliens, frag, I’d even like a smart rock if it’d buy me a drink. Why you think I’m lying when I say I like you bein’ smart?”

“Experience suggests -- “ Perceptor swallowed and reworded. “Personal observation throughout the length of my career is, indeed, a faulty method. However, the findings are consistent. Perhaps personal bias on my part has influenced my observations, but -- “

“Seein’ only what you think you ought to see,” Kup interrupted. Perceptor would have thought the look in his optics to be pity if he didn’t look so sad suddenly. “You’re smarter than that. Know you are, Perceptor.” The hand on the scientist’s scope dropped to cup his cheek. “Gonna have to show you what’s really going on, here.”

Perceptor would have remarked on how unlikely a kiss was to show him anything, but it turned out to be an effective instructional method.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	12. Pt. 12

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 12: “Kup with exotic older equipment and Mirage draped all over him out of curiosity.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Mirage would have taken a dozen extra duty shifts to get his turn with Kup. He’d been fantasizing about this for days. A reputation for being aloof and uninterested in other people’s mundane frivolities handily concealed the number of times he’d drifted off in daydreams behind a neutral expression. Listening to Cliffjumper blather on while wearing an expression of polite attention? Yeah, he was thinking about Kup. 

He had…ideas. Nothing concrete, but he wanted to touch. He wanted to explore. He wanted to see how old Kup truly was, and keep some of that time for himself. The past was the greatest treasure he had left, locked up in memories of a world destroyed, and he was desperate to collect whatever shards of history Kup could gift him.

Kup swaggered up to his duty station just as Mirage’s internal chronometer chirruped the end of the duty shift. With a shallow bow, the age-faded mech offered his arm. Mirage was unprepared for how strong his reaction was, and his optics flushed a dark blue at the chivalrous gesture. Perfect timing and genteel manners skipped his fuel pump, evidently. 

“Believe we got ourselves a date,” Kup said.

Mirage laid his hand on the offered arm. His palm felt unaccountably hot against Kup’s plating. “Yes, we do.”

Kup swept him off the bridge under the optics of everyone there. It was a grandiose gesture straight out of old-fashioned courtesy Mirage hadn’t seen in play for a thousand vorns. It was a privilege and an honor to have it directed at him, and participating was a pleasure. An honestly physical pleasure, which took him a bit aback. Heat shimmered through Mirage’s spark like a blush, but he held his head high and leaned just enough of his weight on his escort’s arm to make it clear the support was welcome.

The few Autobots off-duty in the barracks had shot them sly winks and suffered the sudden urge to start a soap opera marathon in the rec room. Kup nodded genially to them as they left. Mirage made a mental note to give them each a token of gratitude at some point in the future. Privacy was a rare and elusive thing for soldiers.

He intended to put it to good use.

Kup reclined on the berth at Mirage’s urging, compliant. The noblemech’s hands guided him down, tightening in a moment’s distress at the poor accommodations, but Kup dismissed his murmured apology.

“I’ve been in worse. Company makes up for any and everything.” Mirage’s optics went dark blue in a flush of pleasure once again, and Kup smiled up at him. “You’re here, I’m here. Now what?”

Kup was giving him control. That -- 

Mirage bit his lip, running his hands down the older mech’s plating. “I thought we might talk.”

A hand caught one of his and firmly pressed to gray-green metal. “Alright.”

And they did. Kup let him take a verbal, visual, and _tactile_ tour of a body of finite, measureable value, a value gradually approaching priceless as his make and model died out. It wouldn’t surprise Mirage if the old-timer was the last of his frametype. Time had weathered grooves into Kup’s faceplates where the microplating no longer fit seamlessly together. Mirage delicately trailed his fingertips, then his lips over them, feeling their age as Kup described the foundries where they’d been forged. Tales of assembly lines and mining operations shut down as their machinery became obsolete, and Mirage committed them to memory. The armor under his hands wasn’t original, not after war and injury and the sheer wearing weight of time, but the person was, and he couldn’t put a price on that kind of treasure.

Then Kup showed him some parts installed back when he was new, and Mirage was blown away.

“I haven’t seen one of these since the Towers.” Reverent fingers ran over the cover. “Since the Towers **Musuem**. Does it still work?” The fingers stopped dead as the implied disrespect in those words hit home. Mirage yanked dismayed optics up to meet Kup’s amused gaze. “I-I apologize! I didn’t mean to say that you wouldn’t maintain your own equipment! I would never say such a thing.”

“Heh, I know.” Kup let his own hand pet over Mirage’s helm. His fingertips toyed with the vents. “It’s an old design. Hard to get repairs for it, but I don’t meet enough compatible mechs these orns to wear what I got out, if you know what I mean.” He waggled an optic ridge to conjure ribald scenarios of old mechs using out-moded equipment.

Mirage chewed his lip, but even the brief flash of pain couldn’t keep his fans from clicking on in a soft, muted telltale whirr. Old was just a disrespectful term for antique, and a fine engex blend didn’t come to full flavor until the vintage aged to perfection. Society high life in the Towers had thrived on the fads of youth, but underneath every fleeting fashion, old money and the heritage of tradition had directed and supported. Nothing of his history would have existed without what went before, and everything he missed was archaic by now. 

He cupped his hand over living history and imagined it in use.

Kup could _feel_ how a warm flush became hot charge as Mirage heated up. He got a good handful of shiny plating and urged the dreamy-opticked kid into his lap. What once was could be again, for at least this moment.

“Tell me about how it’s used?” the noblemech practically begged.

Kup popped the cover and let his disc drive hum to life. “Well, for one thing, you kids these orns are about instant gratification. Back in my time, you had to prerecord what you wanted your lover to experience, then burn it to a disc. You remember what a disc looked like?”

Mirage moaned. 

**[* * * * *]**


	13. Pt. 13

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**   
**Pt. 13: “Kup knows what it is for and how it works.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Mechs had the saying all wrong. It wasn’t “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” It was “If you can’t beat ‘em, convince ‘em to surrender.”

“Menasor…not understand.” Menasor was plenty curious, however. 

Kup leaned back against a huge middle finger and let Menasor explore. He didn’t mind at all that exploring his old rusty body progressed from simply rubbing a thumb up and down his windshield to getting the other large hand involved. Felt pretty good, to be honest. He got the feeling that nobody had ever outright let the combiners touch someone outside of combat, and it showed. Menasor had touch-hunger. He could _feel_ it.

Huge fingers hesitated, conflicted energy fields sheeting off of whatever Stunticon formed the hand. On the one hand -- literally -- the Stunticons were of many minds, none of those minds in agreement, and their circuitry rebelled against the idea of touching an Autobot. On the other hand -- probably the one Kup reclined on -- Kup had propositioned Menasor directly. He’d _offered_. Touch freely offered to someone who hadn’t known he was starving for it was a deal that couldn’t be passed by easily.

As he’d thought, the combiner’s gestalt mind was a powerful thing, strong enough to override the yelling from his separate components. Nobody had ever approached Menasor for anything other than a fight, or maybe politics. He’d been taken totally off-guard by the small Autobot who’d boldly driven up onto his foot and leered a crude suggestion upward. The natural inclinations of a healthy mech took things from there. 

The Stunticons were loyal to Megatron and the Decepticons. Menasor was, too. Kup had laughed and told him this had nothing to do with either faction.

“I wanna get winched by a big ‘bot, and you’re the biggest thing here!” He’d grinned as Menasor puffed up proudly. Menasor’s ego was briefly the largest thing on the battlefield. 

At the time, Superion had been extremely confused that he was being ignored by his usual nemesis. Since Kup had insisted via comms that he had things handled, Superion had cautiously gone about his business stomping Decepticons. Only Kup’s continued assurance that things were going according to plan had kept him from intervening when Menasor suddenly abducted the aged Autobot from the battlefield altogether. 

So now it was just the two of them, Autobot and several Decepticons, and Kup stretched. The fingering paused. He held the stretch until Menasor started touching the exposed metal revealed under his armor. Touch touch touch. Staticy, charged EM fields fluxed against his. He pushed heat and eagerness back at them. His engine began to idle roughly, and the fingers stopped for a minute. 

Menasor’s expression stilled. _Lust_ was not something he’d felt before, as recipient or himself, personally. _Desire_ boggled him.

“Menasor not understand,” he repeated.

“You want to understand, or you want to do this?” Kup asked, lazily folding his arm across the top of the closest finger.

The fingers slowly stroked down his torso, rubbed at his hips, and ran down his legs. The dark frown of concentration was all Motormaster, in Kup’s opinion, but the care for his finish had to be one of the others. He didn’t have much of a polish going into this, but one of Stunticons seemed intent on petting it all. He spread his thighs and grinned a challenge up at the combiner.

The thumb that had been pressed to his side moved to pin his pelvis down, but Kup gave a pleased squirm. It was a good kind of pin. 

When the combiner repeated himself this time, it came out a question: “Menasor not understand?”

Sympathy filtered in through the low rise of excitement burning through his energy field. The conflicted, angry circuitry in the hands around him belonged to young, ignorant mechs. Of course Menasor didn’t understand. Kup doubted anyone had ever bothered to teach him.

He popped his windshield and couldn’t help but smile at the jitter of lust through Menasor’s components. Well, somebody knew what that meant. Menasor, if possible, looked more interested.

Kup guided one massive fingertip into his passenger space and reflected that this was a far better way to fight than with fists and guns. “Feel that?” An eager nod, and big optics were bright as multiple minds peering through them. Kup spread his legs a little more and let his windshield move out of the way. “You know how to hook into that?”

“Menasor not know.” But Menasor clearly wanted to.

“You want me to show you?” Young and ignorant. Heh. He’d have these ‘Cons eating him out of their hands before the day was out.

“Yes.”

Victory was sweet. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


	14. Pt. 14

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 14: “any of Soundwave's cassettes.”**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Rumors flew.

Or they would have, but Kup lassoed Laserbeak out of the sky.

“Quit your screeching,” he said once he dragged the struggling Cassetticon out of the sky. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Dodging gunfire from above’s only a good time the first hundred times.”

If anything, Laserbeak screeched louder. Binary poured profanity down upon the old Autobot, at least until Laserbeak noticed Kup nodding approval of choice phrasing. Then he shifted to wringing as much volume out of his relatively tiny vocalizer as physically possible. 

“What was that?” Kup cupped a hand over his audio. “Old parts, y’know. Not as reliable as they used to be.”

Guns disabled, the angry Decepticon was down to flapping his wings and warbling insults from under the cable wrapped around his beak. Stupid decrepit Autobot!

Stupid decrepit Autobot capable of bringing him down _after_ interfacing a combiner’s gestalt form into wobbly-kneed retreat. Menasor had lasted through the standard cable input/output fragging, Kup’s slow, thorough exploration of every single secondary connection sockets, and something involving a knife and several fistfuls of spliced wires that Laserbeak hadn’t seen since the gutters of Kaon. In the privacy of his mind, the Cassetticon was reluctantly impressed that Kup could handle sharing the electrical pulses meant for a limb the size of his entire body, much less four limbs at once. He was astounded Menasor had stayed combined after Kup turned the knife on himself. 

Oh, Menasor had certainly jerked and whimpered on the ground as expected. The massive Decepticon gestalt had writhed on his back, joints gone gooey as Kup ran the sharp edge of a blade over keenly sensitive nerve wires, sending fine chills of imminent danger and pulses of direct contact through their joined nervous systems. Laserbeak just was impressed that Menasor had kept it together at all. Kup had sat on top of the gestalt and put on a show Menasor had been past seeing once the knife delved into shoulder joints. Those were sensitive points on most mechs, but for a mech made up of five other mechs? Combination points were apparently erogenous zones for a gestalt. Who knew?

Kup, it seemed. The Autobot had gone after each combination point with the knife blade, and Menasor’s wired-in nervous system had brought the combiner to overload hard enough to knock him to component pieces. After _that_ , the Autobot had looked about himself with a gleam in his optics like he’d walked into a Monacus buffet hall. The Stunticons had been in no shape to flee, and escape had quickly been discarded as an option when they saw what other choices they had available.

Motormaster had been halfway to overload before the he realized he was kissing an Autobot, and Kup had done something clever with his tongue that made the young gestalt leader swallow an automatic protest down before it interrupted anything.

Laserbeak had been forced to cut video feed to Soundwave two obscene acts prior, as hand-to-hand combat and watching porn didn’t go together well. The only reason Soundwave wasn’t on his way to rescue Laserbeak right now was because he’d gotten distracted and apparently knocked out. The other Cassettes told him their carrier was safe, but that left him in Kup’s hands for the time being.

Kup’s very experienced, still-warm hands.

Laserbeak’s squawking cut off suddenly. He peered upward, beady optics wide.

Kup smiled down at him, cables already in hand.

The only sounds Laserbeak made after that were small chirrups and peeps he’d never admit to afterward. And if Soundwave dared bring it up later, Laserbeak was fully prepare to play back the sounds his carrier made when _he_ fell into Kup’s ready hands. 

‘Rescue,’ his teensy Cassetticon aft. Soundwave barely waited his turn.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	15. Pt. 15

**Title:** Burden of Proof  
 **Warning:** Confusion, an old mech with something to prove, and various sexual happenings as a result.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Kup, Dinobots, Hot Rod, Optimus Prime, Ironhide, Prowl, Bumblebee, Spike Witwicky, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Perceptor, Mirage, Onslaught, Blast Off, Ultra Magnus, Menasor, Laserbeak, Jazz, Megatron.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Daendereth wanted to see Kup get some. Then a profoundly annoying Kup-hating anon bothered a bunch of people on Tumblr, and I decided Kup needed to get it _all_.

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 15: "Ya ain't seen nothin' kid!"**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

“I’m supposed t’ be on duty. Gotta stay focused. I’m supposed t’ be on duty. Gotta stay focused. I’m supposed t’ be on duty…”

The mech on the screen stared. He’d been staring for five minutes straight. Jazz had been chanting his little mantra for several times that. 

He’d tried. His hand to Primus and the bridge shift as his witnesses, he’d tried. Even as Kup pulled him into his lap and hooked them up together, he’d tried to keep working. The Autobots were depending on him. Team effort, here.

It really was, but not in quite the way he’d tried to make it. His hands had gone limp and spilled the tablet he’d been reading onto the floor when Kup started with the biting, and Tracks had quietly picked it up. The chair had overturned after his hip joint stuck and threw them off-balance, and Ironhide had inched close enough to take the chair out of their way. The oil slick in the middle of the floor had made pushing Kup away impossible and turned them into a tripping hazard, which might have explained why Ratchet threw the oil on them in the first place. The medic was grinning too slagging wide for that to have been an innocent mistake. 

Even attempting to crawl out of sight of the camera when Teletraan-1 announced an incoming call hadn’t worked. Cliffjumper had taken anything Jazz could have used to drag himself across the floor out of reach, and Kup had crouched over him on all fours, hips grinding into his aft. Blaster had helpfully adjusted the camera to take in the whole scene. Good team effort there, Autobots.

Jazz had tried, he really had, but he hadn’t tried very hard. He said his little mantra over and over again as charge surged through his circuits, draining and filling, filling and draining. He didn’t remember when his elbows had given out, but he was more than happy to push his face into the floor since it was there. His bumper pressed into the floor, too, thrust forward by how Kup’s windshield pushed him down, and it was wonderful. Primus and all his little Primes, it was wonderful. It was hot and fast but it lasted forever until it _didn’t_ \--

“Gotta stay,” Jazz’s voice broke, “ **fo** cused!”

He’d emphasize how he tried to keep working in the report he’d write about this later. Prowl would be so proud of him.

Megatron kept staring. That wasn’t pride. 

Jazz finally went silent, blue visor dark. He smoked faintly. Kup grunted, drew in a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. Everyone around the bridge straightened up, suddenly on alert as he sat back on his heels to give the leader of the Decepticons a come-and-get-me smirk and a come-hither beckoning gesture with two fingers.

It took a while for Megatron to shake off whatever spell he’d fallen under. He reset his vocalizer roughly after a hand -- looked like Soundwave’s -- ventured on screen to poke him. “Prime,” he demanded, voice a little hoarse. “I want to speak with Prime.”

The smirk widened. “He’s busy. You wanna talk to somebody today, you talk to me.”

The Autobots winced. Megatron only spoke with Optimus Prime. He was a fixated mech, they all knew that, and in just a second, Megatron would start with the bellowed threats and screamed demands.

“Very well.” Jaws dropped around the room. “In person, however.”

Kup rolled his shoulders back. “How many persons are we talking?”

Megatron looked at the black-and-white Autobot prostrate before the screen. Jazz was a limp, happy, and deliciously limber little pile on the floor. He showed no signs of recovery. Megatron had to reset his vocalizer again. “If you believe yourself capable of meeting me alone -- “

“One hour, coastline, no back-up.” Kup winked. 

Red optics blinked. “You dare.” Dare what? Nobody knew, least of all him. He didn’t actually seem to know what to say to that. Did age make Autobots more bold?

Kup put his elbow on Jazz’s propped-up aft like he was leaning on a bar. “Trust me. You don’t want your mechs seeing what kind of talking we’ll be doing in person.”

Slack-faced shock was the last thing on the screen as the call suddenly ended, but Soundwave sent a text message agreement. It was more dignified. 

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
